Mothering
       

For a century you held maternal,
southern magnolia, your leaves open
to all until a snowfall in February,
when one last whisper, one flake

that could not tip a scale, snapped
a bough, the whole of you
unburdening onto the ground
you once shadowed.

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Copyright © 2012 Michael McCarthy All rights reserved
from the Southern Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission